Rock bottom (with gangsters)
by Latenightsgunfights
Summary: Max has a knack for finding herself half dead in alleyways. Johnny is sick of her shit.


Max barely registered the smile that came to her lips. It was strange, almost manic, and for a brief moment she presumed the tight grip on her collar had left her brain dead, bruising hold cutting off oxygen and leaving her hallucinating as if in the throes of a cheap LSD trip.

She was pulled forward again, rough enough to cause her neck to click sharply and her brain to register that she may or may not have some minor form of whiplash. Then her back was slammed into the wall, hassled thoughts running away with the air forced from her lungs. She half groaned something ultimately incomprehensible, and when no one came to help, mused that she probably deserved this one, as if that wasn't the case for around ninety percent of the times she found herself being beaten to death in an alleyway. An all too familiar occurrence. This keeps happening, doesn't it?

Max shook her head, registering that she was still against the wall though this time harsh blows rained down on her face and shoulders, bruising her cheeks and smudging her eyeliner. Rude. She threw her arms up, only to have a punch hit her stomach with surprising force. She reached for her gun, tucked into her pants like any other stereotypical gangster, only to find it had been pulled out and tossed haphazardly away, minimal street light dimly reflecting off the metal. She managed to roll her eyes, as if she was in any position to do so, before another punch had her face hitting the gravel. I'm not sober enough for this.

Of course you're not, you wouldn't be on the ground covered in blood and dog shit if you were.

She tilted her head at that, her own thoughts seemingly making sense for the first time in an embarrassingly long while. Being a psychopath wasn't as easy as the media made it out to be.

While it was safe to say that her judgment was well and truly impaired, Max had found herself on both sides of this situation several times in the past, which allowed her to assume that she would probably get her head kicked in any moment. She mumbled, attempting to swivel from her spot on the ground to gander what shoes the attacker was wearing, or at least persuade them to let her take her much too expensive earrings off before the inevitable head stomping. Max whined when neither of these worked.

The kicks started, cracking of wrists and ribs and muffled screaming. She felt a sharp heel dig into her skull, bursting and bleeding and cracking. She felt blood trickle down her temples, flowing from both nostrils and bludgeoned lips. The heel hit her cheekbone with a sickening crack, sinking inwards with red hot agony. Great, i'm gonna die in a fucking alleyway.

A shot sounded then. Loud and piercing and oh so familiar. A shot Max was convinced she heard fifteen seconds too late because the next thing she knew her attackers where running and she'd been tossed roughly into a pile of sharp trashbags, glass and needles and God knows what else sticking harshly into her ribs. Max didn't really think about how the shot had undoubtedly saved her life, instead being rather judgmental. Warning shots seemed drawn out and pointless, an ultimate waste of ammo, and she was dead set on telling the person who shot it exactly that.

But when a tall shadow appeared in front of her, and she squinted up to look in the eyes of her savior, she was met with the reflective black of rectangular shades, casually rolled half way down the nose as if they were a totally normal accessory to be sporting at two something in the morning. He surveyed her, up and down, eyebrow raised in a manner inquisitive and yet characteristically judgmental, and Max poked her tongue out in one last fit of defiance.

"The fuck are you doing?" Gat asked quizzically, tossing his pistol from hand to hand as if it were an unceremonious bouncy ball.

"Havin' a fucking party! What's it to ya?" Max admitted she was rather defensive, her attitude problem slipping out almost as quickly as the blood from the head wound. The world was spinning, and no amount of head shaking would stop it. She closed her eyes.

"Hey? Hey! Wake the fuck up!" She opened her eyes to Johnny roughly shaking her, suddenly on one knee and all too close to her face. It was raining, and she became aware of fast falling droplets soaking his shirt; dribbling and swelling through the thin fabric at Gats knees, causing him to shift from one knee to the other before his clothes got too soaked. Max lifted her head, catching a glimpse of her reflection in his glasses. Flowing blood had intertwined with pale foundation, mixing into a thick pink that spattered her cheeks and combed through her eyebrows. Blonde hair was stained red and roused from its high ponytail, baby hairs sticking up in every direction like a broken compass. Her earring was broken as well. Shame.

A hand was on her cheek, then her head, and Maxine guessed Johnny was feeling around for the head wound, confused eyes and furrowed brows trying to gander whether she was still fully there. Max snorted at that, a sharp exhale through her nose because even she didn't know. Everything was hazy and soft, like her eyes were camera lenses covered in finger prints, and Max laughed, giddy as if high. Johnny pulled his hand back suddenly, as if burned, and even when Max noted dimly that it was deep red, she wasn't worried, barely concerned, those emotions seemed pointless, stressful, and right now she was to keenly focused on the way the street lights flickered and doubled in Gats glasses. Like a muzzle flash.

She reached to grab them, chuckling when his hand grabbed hers almost without looking. She didn't mind, she just tried to grab them with the other hand, once again stopped. Johnny turned to her. "You're bleeding out, I gotta get you to a hospital."

Max whined, memories of every hospital she'd found herself in, of every nurse or doctor she'd been mouthy to, rushing straight to her head like a swig of strong drink. "No hospital." The words were rough and slurred, blending together in a confusing and jumbled manner, and Max wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or the head wound. Either way, she'd hopefully die in a few hours, which would grant her sweet relief from her swirling stomach and Johnny's judgmental gaze. She rolled her eyes, Gat was hot headed enough, if she died he'd probably travel to the very depths of Hell to kick her ass, and she wasn't prepared for that just yet.

She was swaying, lifting, and for a moment she imaged her body a roller-coaster ride. Gat had grabbed her arm, roughly pulling it over his shoulder. She fell heavily against him, heads nearly knocking together, and his hand found her lower back on the side farthest from him, where her tattoo was. Max blushed at the contact, giddy, unsure if the swirling in her stomach was from childish butterflies or vomit. Fuck.

She found out a second after that thought that it was the latter, Johnny roughly throwing her into a corner before she even processed the rising bile and thick wetness on her shoes, cuffing her long jeans and leaving her gagging at the smell. She smeared her hand across her lips, remnants of lipstick and vomit smearing together on the back of her hand in a reddish brown. Max could practically hear Johnny grimacing, grabbing and pulling her against him again. Her stomach stayed calmer this time, but was crippled with warning shocks at the mere thought of putting one foot in front of the other.

Gat was adjusting, pulling her closer, probably realizing that in her injured state she would be no help in maneuvering her body anywhere. Reinforced by that fact that when Max looked over, Gats face was doubling dangerously, his double hazy and colorful.

I hate head injuries.

The next time she found herself aware, she hissed in agony. The harsh bump of tires over gravel jostled her ribs and head, vision pulsing like an EDM track. Her head was resting against a crumpled purple shirt, which seemed to stem the bleeding enough to leave her aware, but not enough to save the white leather of Johnny's seats. He's gonna make me pay for that.

Glancing over to the side, Max noticed Gat driving, face seemingly more pissed off than usual. He had an elbow leaning against a rolled down window, finger tips casually twitching against the wheel while the other hand absently fiddled with the radio, glasses down his nose and eyes on the road.

Max sat forward rather abruptly, hissing again at the pain, hands rifling through the glove department looking for something, anything, to smoke. They'd been friends for a while now, and had been on the front end of enough high speed police chases for him to know that she needed something to keep the edge off whenever she got into this god forsaken vehicle.

"Bingo!"

She pulled a half full cigarette carton from somewhere, reaching over and swatting Gats chest drunkenly with her palm until she found the lighter stashed away in the top pocket of his shirt. Max opened the carton with one finger, bringing it close to her face and pulling a cig out with her teeth. She glanced over at Johnny then, hands shaking and vision too blurred to hold the lighter steady enough. He raised his eyebrows slightly before lifting his hand from the radio and flicking the ignition on the lighter for her, red-blue flame rising up from the plastic and catching the cig, enveloping the edge and allowing the rising smoke to be inhaled. Max nodded slightly in thanks before leaning over and blowing the fumes out of the closest window, trying to find a comfortable position for her battered ribs.

"Put ya seat belt on."

Max huffed like a child. She winced and swiveled and pulled the material down over her torso reluctantly. Her middle finger found its self rising from her fist and wiggling obscenely close to Johnny's face, something along the lines of 'I've sucked your dick, show me some respect' lay tempting on her lips. He ignored her. She huffed again, sitting back against the white leather of his seats and glaring at him.

There was a silence.

"You could of died, you know?" Johnny's voice was remarkably and uncharacteristically sincere, his hand moving up to adjust his shades, covering his eyes fully.

"What?" Max was confused, wondering why Gat would even give a crap. Nearly dying every ten seconds was what she did, her thing, and dedicating her life to the Saints only solidified that.

"I said," he let out an exhale, tapping irritated digits against the steering wheel, "you could of died, Max." Her last name was stressed sarcastically, Gat briefly turning his head to her.

As soon as I'm sure you'll survive the night I'm gonna beat your bony white ass to the next fucking generation, Max mentally translated.

She shrugged, definitely speechless in that moment because Johnny was serious, overly sarcastic, but serious. Maxine couldn't deal with this right now.

"Well I didn't, okay? I'm here, heart still beating, head still on, and the only permanent damage is to my earrings," a pause, "which were designer, by the way."

Johnny chuckled and that, shaking his head, seemly satisfied with Max's pathetic not-quite-sorry. She relaxed.

Max glanced out the window, lighting another fag.


End file.
